“If you will grant a provisional acceptance, an acceptance dependent solely upon the outcome of my dealings, I will devise some means to sway you.”
Again his fists grappled with his beard. Again his visage threatened storms. The extremity in his eyes suggested that words did not suffice for him. Doubtless he would have preferred to face Inimica Phlegathon deVry with a saber.
But while he wrenched his thoughts to and fro, his monarch defeated him. Where beauty did not serve her, words were entirely sufficient. Her response dismembered his turmoil like the flick of a blade.
“The succession, my lord Baron, is perhaps not as secure as you suppose.”
That utterance unmade the Baron’s resolve. His various indignations were transformed. His resistance fell from him like a snatched cloak. For a moment, he gaped, almost visibly attempting to voice the cry which was obvious to my mind. Not secure? Do you intend to disinherit your daughter? But his temerity did not extend to such a query—I may say, to such an affront. Rather he croaked unsteadily, “Provisional?”
Inimica Phlegathon deVry wore her assurance as though it could not be sullied, either by doubt or by threat. “Provisional only, my lord Baron. Until I have demonstrated my sincerity.”
Glare Estobate’s beard shuddered. His mouth could not muster the strength to express his view of her sincerity. Instead he could only ask, “How?”
Draped in silks and sunlight, she appeared irrefusably regal. “How?” she echoed. I saw a teasing glint in her eyes. Perhaps she considered feigning incomprehension. If so, she discarded the notion. With more crispness, more authority, than she had heretofore allowed herself, she announced, “Spring is upon us. On the summer solstice, I will host a great ball in the Domicile. Every personage of note will attend.
“Upon that occasion, I will name my betrothed for all to hear.”
Before Baron Estobate—or indeed I—could so much as begin to estimate the purposes and perils of her intentions, she concluded with drums beating in her tone like a march to the gallows, “At that moment, my lord Baron, your acceptance will cease to be provisional.”
I did not scorn his consternation. Hidden, I shared it. She offered wedlock as a test of loyalty? And she proposed publicly to spurn four so that she might reward one? If it were not errant folly, it was plain madness. She hastened one of Indemnie’s dooms. Indeed, she might bring it upon us in a single stroke.
And yet she was my Queen. In that respect, if in no other, my dismay was greater than the Baron’s. He risked only his head in a game he lacked the penetration to play. I hazarded head, heart, and all in her service.
Glare Estobate had rediscovered wrath. He may have wished to roar. Certainly he appeared primed with outrage, poised to hurl vituperation at the walls. Yet the untroubled polish of Inimica Phlegathon deVry’s demeanor closed his throat. He found no chink in her perfection. At the crisis of this encounter, his wits failed him—his wits or his courage. Rather than cry indignation, he could only writhe in frustration as he dropped his gaze.
“Provisionally, then, Your Majesty,” he gasped as though he had suffered a beating. “I accept.”
Graceless as a marionette, he made a leg and withdrew like a man routed.
Snared within myself, I remained where I was until my Queen asked softly, “You heard?” Then I had no choice other than to emerge from my concealment like a boy caught in a shameful act.
She lifted an eyebrow at my plain disconcertion. “What think you, Hieronomer?”
I swallowed several times. “I am scarce able to name my thoughts, Your Majesty.” Questions crowded my throat. Have you taken leave of your wits? Did you not hear that Thrysus Indolent has already betrayed your machinations? What gain is there in setting the barons at each other’s throats?—a tinder keg which may well take flame ere your demented ball turns every hand against you? How are you able to imagine that such false dealing will forestall the doom—indeed, the dooms—which crowd close upon us? Yet I had no words for such demands. The only query that I was man enough to utter was, “Did you speak truly? Is the succession threatened? Do you mean to disinherit your daughter?”
To shield her daughter’s place from challenge, she had commanded the child’s father murdered in his bed.
My Queen frowned at me, when she had only smiled for Baron Estobate. “Hieronomer,” she replied, “we have spoken of this.” In her tone, an as-yet distant vexation swelled. “Or if not of this explicitly, of other matters similar enough. Your knowledge of my dealings does not concern me. In truth, I require it. It will aid the accuracy of your auguries. But I fear your grasp of my intentions. It will make you dangerous.”
Though I knew how she would answer, I could not stifle a protest. “How so, Your Majesty? I am your servant in all things.”
“We have spoken of this,” she repeated more sharply. “You confessed it to me when you entered my service. I merely heed your counsel.
“You must know of my doings. You must be cognizant of the deeds and forces which shape Indemnie’s fate. But should you apprehend the policy which guides my dealings, you will either approve or disapprove. In either case, you will continue to serve me. And in either case, you will serve me falsely. The honesty of your auguries will be distorted, perhaps fatally, by the judgments of the mind that scries.
“I must rely on you, Mayhew Gordian. You have uttered that to me which cannot be recalled. At your prompting, I have considered futures which cannot be turned aside. I must not now undermine your gifts. I will not.”
Fearing that her ire might draw nearer, I bowed my contrition. “I am chastened, Your Majesty. You well recall my counsel, as I recall the terms of my service. I must trust that my surprise,” indeed, my dismay, “will serve you, should it transpire that your daughter is set aside.”
My Queen did not hesitate. “Then I return to my inquiry.” To that extent, she trusted me still. “Glare Estobate has revealed much which may cause Thrysus Indolent to grind his teeth. What think you of these gambits?”
There I stood on surer ground. I met her gaze well enough to say, “Your deeds as they stand foment rebellion, Your Majesty. Now we have learned that Baron Indolent seeks to weaken your rule for his own purposes. He stirs the hot cauldron of Glare Estobate’s heart. Whether he guessed that Baron Estobate would blurt his revelation is an intriguing detail, but of secondary import. The central point is that Baron Indolent plots some harm to you—or to the realm. So much has been made overt.
“Alas, I cannot determine the nature of that harm by words alone.”
Indeed, I doubted that I would be able to determine the truth of Thrysus Indolent even in my laborium. The greatest frustration of hieromancy, and also the greatest peril, is that it answers specific questions with generalities. Only general questions receive specific responses.
Briefly Inimica Phlegathon deVry mulled my assertions. “Rebellion?” Then she shook her head, scattering auburn intimations through the light on her hair. “I think not. The barons of Indemnie are small men. Those clods and sheep-tuppers have not the manhood to act against me.”
In response, I invoked what small dignity I possessed. “In this, Your Majesty, my arts assure me otherwise. The signs are unmistakable.” I yearned to convey the scale of her peril. “Only the form that the rebellion will take remains obscure.”
However, she appeared impervious to my alarms. With a glance toward the tapestry from which I had emerged, she indicated her readiness to dismiss me. “Return to your den, my fox of the unknown. Glean what you can concerning Thrysus Indolent’s plots. And scry again regarding ships. I crave tidings from any quarter, but in particular from the east. We will speak again when you have some report.” A small catch flawed the music of her voice. “I fear the east.”
Having no other recourse, I bowed again and gathered myself to withdraw.
As I neared the tapestry, she commanded like a sting, “S
acrifice a child if you must.”
With those words, she swept all thought of self-preservation from my head. I wheeled on her as though I were armed. “I will not.”
Through the clamor of my heart, I heard her as though from a distance. “You will if you must.” She was a woman speaking in some other chamber. “Inquire of Slew. He will obtain”—she lifted her shoulders—“what you require.”
I stood before her trembling, deprived of voice. From the windows, the sun cast a blur across my sight. Slew was known to me, a man whose visage of gnarled oak presided over the arms and thighs of an ox. He performed an array of unsavory tasks for his sovereign. I believed him the slayer of the man who had fathered Inimica Phlegathon deVry’s child.
By increments, she appeared to return as though her mind had wandered far. As she assayed my silence, she frowned once more, but slightly, a sign that her displeasure was not yet grave.
“Mayhew Gordian,” she informed me, “I do not fear your disapproval of my deeds. You are aware that I must know the unknown. My need is extreme.”
Then the small tightness of her brows eased. Now she appeared to regard me with a sympathy which she customarily reserved for men whom she meant to mislead or betray.
“I am not unfeeling, Hieronomer. It has not escaped my notice that I make hard use of you. Perhaps you suffer the pangs of a need for which your straits preclude satisfaction. Food and wine you have in plenty. Lodgings, garments, warmth. The rooms and implements necessary to your arts. Any sacrifice that you desire. And I have offered both attendance and aid—even my own—but those comforts you have declined. Nevertheless some common need remains to plague you.
“If you will but name it, it will be assuaged.”
The thought that she now offered the use of some hapless woman or man for my pleasure—or indeed of some girl or boy—exceeded endurance. I did not regard myself highly, but I had not yet sunk to such depths. Nor were the tattered remnants of my conscience so readily suborned. With an effort, I recovered my voice, though I spoke hoarsely.
“I have seen too many entrails, Your Majesty. I have no common needs.” More clearly, I conceded, “Should no other augury suffice, I will consider a child,” though I hoped that I would be man enough to cut my own throat first.
Then I turned away again. Thrusting aside the tapestry with hands that shook, I effected my departure from the boudoir.
I believed that I could have sacrificed Slew without quaver or qualm. Alas, every hieronomer knew that the entrails must be young. An excessive experience of life introduced too many conflicts, too many knots of passion, wrong, and failure. Only the viscera of the innocent spoke truly.
Still I preferred to contemplate disemboweling Slew as I descended to my laborium. His blood would not make me regret my existence.
When I gained my chambers, I found the door unlocked.
This did not alarm me. I was too much distracted for ordinary fright. And I knew of one other key. For that reason, I was not taken aback to discover a woman waiting in my laborium.
I knew her for a woman by no sign other than her possession of a key. Though she was seated upon a stool and must have expected my return, her face was entirely hidden by the hood of the dun wool cloak which also concealed every detail of her form. Under other circumstances, the young delicacy of her hands might have exposed her, but now they were covered by her sleeves.
Yet I was sure of her. When I had swallowed the taste of my exchanges with Inimica Phlegathon deVry, I said gently, “Your Highness,” bowing though she could not see me past the rim of her hood. “You are ever welcome here.” I did not add that I was especially grateful for her presence now. “How may I serve you?”
Straightening her back, she lifted her head without revealing it. In a tone too arid for her years, she replied, “You do not serve me, Hieronomer. I serve you.” Then she added less drily, “How often must I insist that I wish to be addressed by my name? If you do not, I must continue to call you Hieronomer.”
I smiled. She had that power over me despite my recent distresses. “Very well,” I answered, “Your Highness. I make no future promise. For the present, however, I will deny you the dignity of your title. Excrucia, you are very welcome.”
She was Excrucia Phlegathon deVry, my Queen’s daughter—and presumed heir.
She sighed. “Ah, dignity. You and no other man considers me worthy of any title. Still I am pleased, Mayhew. Your name suits you.”
I smiled more broadly. “Then accept my thanks. Among my few pleasures, I regard your use of my name most highly.” I did not cite the comfort of her friendship, or the value of her aid.
“Most highly,” she echoed. Now she sounded like a land in drought. “You are not often thus fulsome. You must have returned from yet another opaque audience with my mother.”
In my turn, I sighed. For a moment, I scrubbed my face with my hands, striving to efface my Queen’s command from my features. Sacrifice a child— When that expedient failed, I slumped to a stool and seated myself near my visitor.
At once, she adjusted her posture so that still I could not gaze upon her visage.
I knew the cause of her modesty or shame—knew it, and was deeply vexed. At other times, I had respected her reluctance to be seen, doing so because I had no wish to discomfit her. Now, however, Her Majesty’s instructions had provoked me out of my customary circumspection. Goaded by an unfamiliar ire, I elected to confront her daughter.
“Excrucia Phlegathon deVry, you are widely considered the plainest and dullest woman in the land. That is unfortunate.” Who would not appear both plain and dull beside Indemnie’s ruler? “But it is your further misfortune that I do not find you plain, and to my certain knowledge you are far from dull. Also I am desperate. Therefore I ask of you deeds and dangers which my service to your mother will not permit me to perform.”
Indeed, I relied upon Excrucia’s common repute to render her unworthy of notice, perhaps even of refusal. Such qualities might ward her where I could not.
To my relief, she laughed. “Now you mock me, Mayhew. I have incurred no perils in your name. Rather the tasks which you request provide only fascination.”
That happy condition would not endure. Nonetheless I silenced my wish to speak of future hazards. She was not the cause of my anger—or of my alarm. Also her presence assured me that she had much to relate.
“Your Highness.” I faltered. “I mean to say, Excrucia.” Then I summoned my resolve. “Your perils are perhaps greater than you suppose. I have come from eavesdropping upon an audience between Her Majesty and Baron Glare Estobate.” Reluctant to inspire condemnation of Inimica Phlegathon deVry in her daughter, I revealed only that which I deemed compulsory. “In the course of their converse, Her Majesty suggested to the Baron that the succession may not be entirely secure.”
There I halted, awaiting some response.
My ally granted me a glimpse of one eye past her hood. “I suppose Mother is wise to caution the barons. Certainly they will be wise to fear her wrath.” Her voice resembled bleached bone as she added, “There has been an attempt on my life.”
In an instant, my world reeled. In a day of unpleasant blows, this jolt snatched me to my feet. Indemnie was not a realm in which attempts were made upon the lives of daughters—or indeed of sons. We were too prosperous, and had been too long at peace. Trembling again, and unable to speak, I stood over Excrucia. Another man would surely have demanded, Who dares? I was able only to knot my fists and stare.
She did not flinch. Doubtless for her own preservation—I mean her emotional preservation—she had learned a measure of her mother’s self-possession. Also she did not fear me. In a tone devoid of emotion, she explained, “Five nights past, I awoke well before dawn. Some sound, or perhaps some current in the air, must have disturbed me, though I do not recall it. Opening my eyes, I found a dark form near my bed. It approached with it
s hands raised. I saw the polished sheen of long knives.”
Within her cloak, she shrugged. “Fortuitously Vail’s saber swept the assassin’s head aside ere the knives plunged.”
Gaping, I croaked like a toad, “You suffered no hurt?”
Her hood shook a negative. “Mother was irate that Vail did not preserve the assassin’s life. She wished my intended slayer questioned. She wished him tortured. However, Vail outfaced her displeasure. After a time, she conceded that his quickness was apt.
“Doubtless she is wise to hint that the succession is endangered.” Here Excrucia’s voice suggested the breaking of brittle twigs. “And doubtless also she is wise to do no more than hint. Through Glare Estobate, she informs the barons that she is aware of betrayal while leaving them uncertain as to the extent of her knowledge, or even of her suspicions. They will do well to hear her hints as threats.”
I found that I had not the strength to remain upright. Seating myself once more, I slumped like a broken thing. I had acted inconsiderately when I first sought her aid, but I was not yet so devoid of scruple that I could contemplate harm to her person without faintness.
Vail, I thought, shaken as aspen leaves high on the Fount Peaks. Damned, blessed Vail. He was Slew’s comrade—almost Slew’s brother in appearance—but his tasks were not Slew’s. He served as Excrucia’s bodyguard. In Indemnie! An isle where even household guards were no more than a formality. I had long distrusted him, but now I was weak with gratitude for his diligence in his duty—and also for his skill.
“Well,” I breathed, endeavoring to calm myself. “Well. It is plain that events have proceeded further than I knew.” Hieronomy suggested future movements and outcomes, but was notoriously imprecise concerning when those developments might occur. “Hazards I foresaw, but I had supposed them distant,” certainly no nearer than Inimica Phlegathon deVry’s coming ball. “Now I confess my folly.”
Sinking inwardly, I said as well as I could, “Your Highness, I must cast you aside. I no longer require your service. That you are already endangered is insufferable. I will not allow your peril to be increased in my name.”
The King's Justice: Two Novellas Page 11